


Mørkret meg fangar og stel mine sansar

by Squoxie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, But also there are Soft Moments, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ghosts, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Relationship, Strap on your seatbelt this is some serious angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26584186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squoxie/pseuds/Squoxie
Summary: A pulse beats, beats, and stops. Breath gone, chest still, nothing. Nothing. Finished. Done.Silence.Except—He opens his eyes, and he exists. It’s not right. Surely it’s not right, but he’s aware, he’s present, he’s… he’s cold. Everything is muted, strange. Cold. Ephemeral.
Relationships: Cedric/Ciaran aep Easnillien, Cedric/Iorveth (Past), Ciaran aep Easnillien/Iorveth
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Livet i kring meg eg høyrer det lyde

**Author's Note:**

> Betaread by the wonderful TheDevilishlyAngelic
> 
> Title means: The dark it catches me and steals my senses - yet another lyric from a song by Gåte (in this case Draumefanga);3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title means: The life around me I hear it sound

A pulse beats, beats, and stops. Breath gone, chest still, nothing. Nothing. Finished. Done.

Silence.

Except—

He opens his eyes, and he exists. It’s not right. Surely it’s not right, but he’s aware, he’s present, he’s… he’s cold. Everything is muted, strange. Cold. Ephemeral.

Cedric sits up slowly, and watches with detached confusion as his body remains slumped into the old tree, eyes closed, a small smile on the lips. Pale. Dead. But what, then, is he? He lifts a hand, and he sees right through it.

…Is he… a ghost? Or is this merely a stage of death?

He climbs to his feet, strangely light, and looks at his side, furrowing his brows. There’s no pain, only a strange ache, a phantom sensation of it. He looks at his body, at the body motionless on the ground, his padded jacket soaked in blood. Life, gone. An empty husk. He… he doesn’t know what to think. What to feel. What to do. He doesn’t understand this. He feels cold and muted, but he  _ feels _ . He thinks.

He’s clear in the head, he realises. The fog of vodka is gone, not even an ache to commemorate it. It’s… odd. He hasn’t been so clear minded for a long time, isn’t quite sure what to make of it.

He takes a step, hesitant, then another, until he finds himself walking away. Away from death, away from what was. Toward Flotsam, only… no, to the outside of it. There’s something there, something important. A feeling of urgency comes to him, and he starts running, swerving between trees. Would it even hurt to run into them? Is he even present at all? He doesn’t know, doesn’t have time for that right now.

He reaches the river, and gasps. In the water, barely touching land, is an elf. A very familiar elf too, and Cedric falls to his knees, reaches out.

“Ciaran, oh gods…”

His hand passes right through Ciaran’s shoulder. Or… not right through it, there is some near unnoticeable resistance. But it isn’t a touch, there is no contact.

There is a faint sound, and Ciaran stirs weakly. He’s alive? But for how long? He moves, his arm shifting excruciatingly slowly to try to grip at land, to pull himself out of the water. An exhausted whimper is more than signal enough of how near he is to be out of strength, his bloodied and bruised wrists proof of what terrible treatment he must’ve gone through.

And what can Cedric do, with no body, with no tangible self? With no knowing if he truly exists anymore, or if he is simply a figment of imagination, a last fever dream?

“You must be strong, Ciaran,” he murmurs. “Just a little more. Just a little more, and you are on land. Just enough that you can breathe, that you will not drown.”

“C…Cedric…?”

Can Ciaran  _ hear  _ him? How? Unimportant.

“Yes,” he says. “Dear one, you must try.”

Ciaran whines high in his throat, soft and hoarse, lashes fluttering, but seemingly incapable of opening properly. Cedric draws a hand over soaked, greasy hair, and cannot feel it.

With a bitten-back groan of pain and exhaustion, Ciaran grips at land, and heaves himself up. Not far, his arms collapsing under him, but enough. Enough that he won’t be swept away by the stream, enough that he can breathe air safely. He won’t drown. But… will he survive? That is another question entirely.

The water doesn’t hide the blood stained into Ciaran’s clothing. It doesn’t hide contusions and scrapes. How can anyone treat another living being like this, think it acceptable?

Ciaran stirs again, lashes fluttering, and this time, he manages to open an eye. Only the one. The other one is swollen shut. But the eye that opens is a hazy honey, unfocused, for all that it seeks to see something. Him, maybe. Is he visible? Is he not? What is he, how is he…?

“Cedric…” Ciaran whispers, sounding almost relieved. Then his eye closes, and he falls slack. Still breathing. Heart still beating. But unconscious.

Cedric sits down proper, and starts stroking Ciaran’s hair, pretending he can feel the silky strands against his calloused fingers. What else is he to do? He’s dead. He must be. Naught but a spirit, now, restless and confused.

He continues stroking Ciaran’s hair, and forgets time exists.

~

Ciaran rouses, and Cedric has no concept of how much time has passed. Not that it matters anymore, he supposes.

“I made it…” Ciaran murmurs, wondering. Tired. He opens his unswollen eye slowly, and carefully, carefully, manages to manoeuvre himself to lie on his back instead of half on his front, half on his side. It takes effort, and he winces, panting, once he manages. Then his brows furrow.

“Did I…? No… if he were here, I’d…”

“Conserve your strength,” Cedric tells him, though he doesn’t know if Ciaran can truly hear him or not. “You mustn’t stay here for too long, it isn’t safe. You’re in too poor shape. If anything, maybe Seherim could help…?”

Ciaran draws a sharp breath, gaze sweeping and confused. “C-Cedric? Where…? You sound… far away. Echoing. What…? Am I hearing things…?”

So he  _ is  _ hearing Cedric. If, it sounds, somewhat distorted. Cedric swallows. What does that mean? For either of them?

“I… I’m not… it’s not important. If you’re hearing things, so am I. Seeing things too, I suppose… not that I ever know the difference of present and future anymore. No, it’s irrelevant. Gather strength, Ciaran, make your way to Lobinden. Seherim, he can help you.”

Ciaran squints, confused, uncertain. As his gaze sweeps again, this time it fastens on Cedric briefly, before again losing focus. He gasps, arm rising as if to reach out.

“You— I saw— you’re here. But you’re not? …What are you not? It must be important.”

Cedric hisses a breath through his teeth, frustrated. “I’m not  _ alive _ ! I’m dead!” he exclaims. “Please, Ciaran, don’t make me watch  _ you  _ die _. _ ”

“Dead…?” Ciaran breathes, a horrified, utterly disbelieving look drawing over his face.

Cedric wants to sob and cry. He doesn’t. Instead, he caresses Ciaran’s cheek, fingertips faintly disappearing into the flesh, intangible. “Dead,” he affirms. Softly, now. “I’m sorry.”

“No. No, no, no. No, you can’t be!” Ciaran protests, lurching up. He falls back down with a wheeze and a pained grimace, tears springing to his eyes, and Cedric feels a vice around his heart. To only be able to  _ watch _ , to be so unable to help, to watch Ciaran tremble in physical and emotional torment…

He hates himself for it. Only briefly, tempered by the knowledge that there is nothing he can  _ do  _ about it, but to be so close and yet so far, it tears at him. Damn all of this.

“You can’t be…” Ciaran whimpers, the tears now escaping down over his cheeks, and Cedric closes his eyes briefly, pained. “I am… was… old, Ciaran,” he says softly. “But you are young. And you are still alive. But you won’t be if you remain here. Do you understand?”

There’s a soft sniffle, and when he opens his eyes, he finds Ciaran nodding miserably. With a hiss, he tries to sit up, tries to be careful and slow. The exertion makes him shake so badly Cedric can see it without even trying to.

“It hurts,” Ciaran whispers, hunching over, arms folding around himself gingerly. “I don’t… I don’t know if I can…”

“One step at a time,” Cedric advises him. “You  _ can _ .”

“I can’t feel my hand,” Ciaran replies. Stares at his hand with his one good eye, tries to move it. Only the thumb and pointer finger curls, the others jerking, and he whimpers. Cedric reaches out, places his own hand atop it, knowing now it cannot have any weight, cannot hurt what has already been harmed enough.

“Is— are you… touching me? My hand got cooler. I can feel that.”

Oh. Cedric swallows. “I am. I wish I could take care of you. But I can’t. One step at a time, Ciaran.”

Ciaran licks his lips, chapped, and stained with dried blood. “Okay,” he says.

The assent does not make it any easier a task. Cedric can practically see Ciaran’s body fraying apart at the seams, mistreated and ruined, and every motion, every breath, causes pain and anguish. It is a miracle he is even alive, that he even made it to land instead of merely drowning, disappearing, forgotten at the bottom of the river.

How did he end  _ in  _ the river? The barge… the prisoners there… were they to be drowned? Or was Ciaran simply tossed overboard, half-dead, expected to succumb to the depths of obscurity?

Ciaran manages to get to his feet, to shuffle, to stumble over to a tree, to lean into it as his legs tremble with the effort of holding him up. There’s a spreading stain of red painting itself morbidly out from his abdomen. So young. So close to death. Is that why he can hear Cedric? Why he can almost feel his touch, almost see him?

Ciaran’s legs buckle, and he scrambles at the tree for a branch, anything, to grip, to hold himself up. His arms tremble too, but he remains upright, clutching at the support of the tree, breaths short and jagged.

“One… One step… at a time,” he bites. “I can… I  _ must _ …”

“Breathe,” Cedric says. “Carefully now.”

Ciaran’s breath hitches, before he then forces himself to take a slow, deep breath. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs. “You… always know what to… to do.”

Cedric smiles bitterly. If only that were the truth. He strokes Ciaran’s cheek, observes him tilting his head into it, seeking the affection, so faint, so far away. Cedric wishes he could feel the warmth of soft skin against his fingers. But all he feels is a faded pressure, like touching a mirror and finding it is not glass, but water.

“Don’t— don’t leave me?” Ciaran asks. “Please?”

“I won’t,” Cedric assures. “I’ll stay for as long as you need me.”

He abruptly feels heavy. It lasts only for a moment before he again feels as strange and cold and weightless as he has since stepping out of his own body, but he is left bewildered. Bewildered, and concerned. What did he just do?

“Thank you,” Ciaran whispers. Then, determination entering his eye, jaw setting, he takes a step. And another.

One step at a time.

~

It’s not so much Ciaran that finds Seherim, as the other way around. Cedric doesn’t care one way or another, simply sighing with relief when Seherim immediately moves to support Ciaran before he falls over, his eye wide. Ciaran cries out softly, his exhausted body crumpling into the touch of the other.

“Please…” he breathes.

“I’ve got you,” Seherim assures him, carefully adjusting his grip. “You’re hurt – how badly?”

Ciaran shakes his head weakly, and Cedric gently touches his cheek. “Seherim will help you,” he says. “But you must tell him how you are hurt, or he cannot.”

Seherim does not react at all to his words, while Ciaran does. “Cedric…” he mumbles.

“What—?” Seherim says, before his expression falls into soft realisation and pain. “You know— knew him… I’m sorry, but… but Cedric isn’t… he’s not… Cedric has passed.”

Cedric swallows. He knows that. He knows. And yet, hearing Seherim say it, so clearly pained, so clearly grieving, it makes him feel short of breath. Of course he has known there are some who would care about his demise, would miss him, but to  _ see  _ the clear grief in Seherim’s eye… Ciaran is something else, Ciaran has known him truly, but is near delirious with pain and exhaustion. Seherim however, Cedric has tried to keep at a distance. And failed, it would seem.

Ciaran whimpers. “I know,” he whispers. “He— he told me.”

Seherim blinks slowly, concerned. “He told you…? How— you must have a fever,” he says, pressing the inside of his wrist to Ciaran’s forehead and wincing. “We must speak of this later – come, I will bring you somewhere safe. Anezka might have some herbs, some supplies, to help you. We must be careful though, the other Scoia’tael have left, but… oh, things aren’t good in Flotsam now, they really aren’t.”

Ciaran jerks. “Left—?”

How? When? How much time  _ has  _ passed? Cedric can’t tell at all. That’s concerning.

“Not long ago. That Iorveth was aided by the vatt’ghern, Gwynbleidd. He was the one who found Cedric, too… was with him, when he passed. He wasn’t alone. A small consolation, but… it’s something,” Seherim says, gently coaxing Ciaran into moving with him, though he is truth to be told more carrying the other elf than anything. Difficult, with Ciaran so wounded, but Seherim is strong, and Ciaran worryingly thin.

“W-What of… Letho? The king-slaying one,” Ciaran questions. “He intended… he intended to kill Iorveth. I— I can’t—”

“Spare your strength, friend,” Seherim replies. “I don’t know this Letho, asides that Gwynbleidd said he was the one to lethally wound Cedric, but Iorveth was fine, last I saw. Angry. Very angry. And sad, I think.”

Ciaran whines like a wounded animal. “Curse him. Curse him!” he cries. “We never should’ve—”

He cuts himself off with a pained, rattling cough, and Seherim shushes him, looking even more concerned. “You mustn’t get so upset,” he says. “You are in very bad shape, and it isn’t helping.”

“W-What point… I might as well… just die,” Ciaran replies wretchedly.

“Ciaran, please,” Cedric speaks up. “Just let Seherim help you. Letho is gone, he has no interest in Iorveth any further, and… and does it matter, in the end, whose sword it was that struck me down? There is no pain anymore. I promise you.”

Ciaran looks at him, and this time it is clear he is seeing Cedric properly, eye focusing on him despite the haze of pain and fatigue. “If there is… no pain… I’d rather join you… Cedric.”

Seherim, alarmed, tries to follow Ciaran’s gaze, and clearly fails to see anything at all. “Fever dreams, or…? There is more in this world than what can be seen and felt. If you truly are here, Cedric, please convince your friend it isn’t yet his time. I am  _ certain  _ we can help him, but only so long as he doesn’t give up himself.”

Cedric wishes he knew any way to respond, some way to give Seherim a sign that he is truly present, even if he doesn’t know in what form. But instead, he nods more to himself than anything, and strokes Ciaran’s cheek, catching his gaze with his own. He smiles, knowing it is all too visible how pained he is by the situation, but trying to project as much warmth and affection as he possibly can.

“I know you are hurting. There aren’t words for how it pains me to see you like this. But please, Ciaran. You are so  _ young _ . This isn’t your time to die. Death waits for us all, and you will join me eventually. But until then, won’t you please live?”

Ciaran’s face twists, tears running over his cheeks. “…I will try,” he whispers, as if ashamed. “I will try, Cedric.”

Cedric kisses his forehead, and Ciaran cries.

Seherim, relieved and ponderous, bows his head to Cedric’s direction, a small, sad smile on his lips. “Thank you, Cedric. And va faill.”

~

Seherim brings Ciaran to a mostly abandoned hut a short way away from Lobinden. Cedric calls it ‘mostly’, because he knows it has been used by a variety of Lobinden folks for a variety of purposes every now and then. Illegal ones, obviously. But none of them would protest Ciaran being treated there, and so that makes it ideal. Close by, yet far enough away that any guards jittery about Scoia’tael won’t find him.

Anezka, anxious and silent, doesn’t mind helping Seherim with Ciaran, and Cedric is relieved. He’s also concerned, because he doesn’t know how Ciaran will react to her, the younger elf having fallen unconscious before there could be made mention that she is dh’oine. And though Ciaran has never been indiscriminate, the way he has been treated…

And he has been treated horribly. Cedric reaches trembling fingers to trace bruises and wounds as Seherim and Anezka undress the tormented elf with care and concern. The biggest concern is the infected wound in his side, from which blood is still flowing sluggishly. But there are abrasions and discolouration all over Ciaran’s pale skin, bruises in the shape of rough hands and fists and boots. Two broken ribs. Some sort of damage to his hand.

Cedric weeps. Silently, tears a constant stream over his cheeks, dripping from his chin, gathering at the hollow of his throat. Ciaran is so  _ young _ . So young and beautiful, vivacious, and lovely. But now? Seeing him so broken and bruised, Cedric despairs. He despairs, and he’s so damned  _ angry _ .

He’s  _ frighteningly  _ angry. It makes his edges flicker, and it terrifies him. If he is a ghost, if he is a spectre, a spirit – will the anger turn him into something  _ else _ ? He doesn’t want to be vengeful wraith. Doesn’t want to be anything at all.

He just wants Ciaran to be alright.

“I need to cut this open, if we want him better,” Anezka says silently, gesturing to Ciaran’s infected wound. “But he might wake from the pain of it, and hurt himself. Can you hold him? Just in case?”

Seherim nods, gnawing on his lip. “I think, uh… he might not react too well to you,” he warns. “He’s Scoia’tael, and the guards on the barge… well, I don’t think he’ll react well to dh’oine in general.”

“I understand,” Anezka nods. “Please hold him. If he wakes and fears me, try to talk sense to him, at least until I can clean the wound and wrap it. Then I can leave, and you should be able to take care of the rest. More than anything, he needs proper nourishment, water, and plenty of rest.”

“What of his hand?” Seherim asks. “The fingers that won’t bend properly?”

Anezka shakes her head, picking up a small knife as he moves into place to gently restrain Ciaran. “I can’t do anything about that. Might be something wrong with the tendons or the nerves, and I’m a herbalist, not a doctor. Alright, hold him, I will begin cutting now.”

Cedric wants to turn away, but he can’t. He moves closer though, moves to gently stroke Ciaran’s hair. If Ciaran wakes, and he can still see him, it might help abate any panic Anezka’s rounded ears can cause.

Anezka’s knife is sharp, and it slices through coagulated blood and poorly healing flesh with ease. Ciaran’s face twists up in pain, even while unconscious, and a broken whine sounds from his throat, but Anezka, face set with determination and distant concern, merely continues her job. Then, it seems, her knife slices through more sensitive flesh, and Ciaran twists, lashes fluttering as he struggles to wake up. Seherim grips his shoulders, Anezka using one arm to press down on Ciaran’s hip to try to hold him still, and Cedric speaks soothing nonsense, wishing he could be of more help.

When Ciaran finally wakes properly, it is with a sobbing scream, and Seherim grimaces, looking mildly panicked. “You’re alright, you’re alright, we just need to get the infection out,” he says. “Anezka is almost done, I promise, almost done.”

“No!” Ciaran wails, struggling against being restrained, and Anezka hisses a breath through her teeth, having to withdraw her knife so she doesn’t accidentally stab him. “Seherim,  _ hold him _ !”

“I’m trying!” Seherim responds. “Cáelm, cáelm, esseath sàbhailte!”

Ciaran shakes his head wildly, and Cedric, not knowing what to do, places his entire palm over Ciaran’s face, fingers disappearing into the skin. That makes him still, blinking rapidly. “Ced—?”

“You  _ must  _ lie still,” Cedric tells him. “Your wound is infected, and Anezka must clean it out for you to heal. I know it hurts. But you must lie still.”

Ciaran whines, but does remain still, his entire body trembling with the pain. Anezka quickly takes the chance to go back to her work, and Seherim uses his thumbs to rub circles into Ciaran’s shoulders.

“Almost done,” he says. “The infected tissue is nearly gone now, and then Anezka just needs to wash it out a bit, you’ll be fine, friend, I promise you.”

“C-Ciaran… my name,” Ciaran manages, gritting his teeth so tightly Cedric fears he’ll chip them.

“Ciaran, then,” Seherim says, nodding. “I am Seherim. Cedric might’ve told you, I suppose.”

Ciaran grunts in affirmation, and Cedric gently brushes a hand over his forehead. The sweaty strands of hair do not move.

Anezka pulls back the knife with a decisive motion, and with that tugs loose dying and ill flesh and blood. Ciaran cries out, but manages to keep himself still through sheer force of will, tears running down his face.

“I need alcohol,” Anezka notes. “Do you think there’s anything left of Cedric’s stash here?”

Seherim wrinkles his nose. “In the cupboard, if so.”

There is, Cedric knows, and he smiles bitterly as Anezka moves over and finds the few remaining bottles of vodka hidden here. Well, not so much hidden as indeed merely… stashed. What a fool he has been. In so many ways.

“This will burn, but it is necessary,” Anezka says, before promptly pouring vodka over Ciaran’s open wound. This time he doesn’t scream, but bites back a groan. Less pain, higher tolerance, or is he simply falling unconscious again? Whatever the case, Cedric just wants this to be over. Wants Ciaran to be allowed to rest and recuperate, wants him  _ well  _ again.

Who knows if he ever will be? The trauma from all of this… No, he cannot think like that, he mustn’t. So perhaps Ciaran will not be as he was, but he is still  _ Ciaran _ . And if there is one thing that suffuses Ciaran, it is his strength of will, his optimism. He is not  _ broken _ . He’s just bent. And maybe he can’t be bent back to the shape he originally was. But maybe something close. Or maybe something new. Maybe.

“There,” Anezka says, dabbing lightly around the wound with a no longer clean piece of fabric. “It should possibly be sewn, but I don’t have equipment for that, so bandages will have to do.”

Seherim nods, and, after ascertaining that Ciaran won’t be moving, in fact having fallen unconscious again, he moves over to help gently lift Ciaran enough to wind the bandages around his abdomen. Anezka is swift in that, but also meticulous, and soon enough, the wound is bandaged up.

“I will make some poultices,” she says. “But if he’s frightened of humans, I shouldn’t come back here while he’s vulnerable. So meet me in the mornings, and I’ll give you what you need to take care of him.”

“That sounds a good plan,” Seherim agrees. “Thank you for your help, Anezka. I appreciate it, and I am certain Ciaran does as well. Or will, once he is coherent.”

Anezka smiles briefly. “Well, I… you’re welcome. I’m glad I could be of help. But I’ll be off now, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

With a nod from Seherim, Anezka thus packs her things, including the infected tissue in a rag to be burnt, gives Ciaran a last critical look, and leaves. Seherim sighs, his shoulders drooping. He fetches a blanket and carefully tucks it around Ciaran’s prone body, and then he moves over to slump in a chair.

“Not how I imagined I’d spend my day,” he comments wearily. “But he will be healthy again. We will make it so. With patience. I really wish I had your patience, Cedric.”

Cedric smiles wanly, and says nothing. It’s not as if Seherim can hear him.


	2. Lite eg ser av dei ting eg må tyde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting and healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title means: Little I see of the things I must interpret

Two days go by before Ciaran wakes again, and Cedric can only tell it is so because of Seherim’s coming and going, coaxing water and broth in Ciaran, and ensuring he is lying somewhat comfortably. He is not present when Ciaran wakes, though, and Cedric isn’t certain whether that’s for the better or the worse.

Ciaran’s lashes flutter, and he opens his eyes slowly, warily. Both, now, the swollen one eased by Seherim’s care. Honey eyes sweep over the ceiling and walls slowly, uncertainly, before Ciaran then swallows, carefully pushing himself up into a sitting position, mindful of his side.

“…Cedric…?” he asks. His voice is so very, very small.

“I am here,” Cedric says softly. Relief comes to Ciaran’s eyes, followed then by utter anguish.

“You really… I thought, I hoped that it was fever, a terrible dream…”

Cedric swallows, moving over to stroke a hand over Ciaran’s hair. “I know. I know, Ciaran,” he replies.

Ciaran’s lip trembles. “Why can’t I see you anymore? I could see you. When— earlier.”

“I don’t know,” Cedric admits. “You’re the only one who seems able to hear me as well, but… but Ciaran, you almost died. That… that might have something to do with it.”

Ciaran nods pensively, his hand going to his bandaged side, brows furrowing. “Anezka… she was…a dh’oine? But she helped me? I can’t remember… it hurt so badly.”

“She did,” Cedric affirms. “Anezka prefers to keep to herself, not draw attention. But she has nothing against non-humans. She won’t be returning, didn’t want to cause unease by the fact that she is dh’oine. Seherim has been by several times though, he’ll return… at some point. I can’t really tell time anymore, it’s all so… vague.”

Ciaran looks in his direction, concerned. “Vague? How do you mean?”

Cedric makes to gesture, pauses, and drops his hand. What point is there in that? “Simply vague. I can’t tell time; I can’t quite focus. But it doesn’t matter, either. Not for me. Not anymore.”

“Don’t say that,” Ciaran protests. “You’re still— still  _ here _ .”

“As what? A spirit? A memory? A dream?” Cedric asks. His tone is more bitter than he intends it to be. “I cannot interact with the world, so to what purpose do I exist?”

Ciaran’s eyes gain a suspiciously wet sheen, and he quickly looks down. “… I would’ve given up. If you didn’t tell me to— to try. To survive. Isn’t that… isn’t that something?” he asks. His voice shakes.

Cedric instantly regrets his bitterness, touching Ciaran’s forearm gently. “That’s  _ everything _ . If that is to be the one thing I achieve in this strange existence, Ciaran, then I will be content,” he assures. “I simply… find myself aimless, and confused. I’m so cold.”

“…I can feel you touching me. Just a bit,” Ciaran mumbles. “I’m glad you’re here. That I’m not alone. Seherim, he said— they  _ left _ ? Iorveth and…?”

Cedric strokes Ciaran’s arm, glad that at least he can somehow be felt, that he seems to have some sort of physical existence, even if not a true one. “I wouldn’t know, I’m sorry. You must ask Seherim. I know nothing past Gwynbleidd going into the forest to meet Iorveth, know nothing past trying and failing to protect Triss from Letho.”

“Why would you do that?” Ciaran frowns, looking up again. “What did the sorceress matter to  _ you _ ?”

“She asked me for help,” Cedric answers.

Ciaran stares in his direction, disbelief painting his features. “She asked— she’s a  _ sorceress _ !” he cries. “They’re the most manipulative dh’oine of all, and certainly with enough power to protect them _ selves _ instead of— instead of getting people killed for them!”

“There’s little point in admonishing me for my choices now,” Cedric notes neutrally. “And I am not a fool, Ciaran.”

Ciaran makes a sound somewhere near a whimper, and starts to cry. “But you’re  _ dead _ ,” he sobs, curling in on himself. “You’re dead, and— and it’s her fault! If she hadn’t asked, if you hadn’t gotten involved—”

“Shh,” Cedric murmurs. “Shh now, little darling. There is no pain, anymore.”

Ciaran’s shoulders shake, his sobbing only becoming more pronounced, and Cedric folds his arms around him in a semblance of an embrace, tears welling in his own eyes. He wishes it could be different. Because this… isn’t this just drawing out the inevitable? Every word he speaks, a reminder that he isn’t truly present, a voice with no body, a dead elf who hasn’t yet realised he should be truly gone, disappeared, to remain in memory and no more?

How does one truly mourn and move on from someone who is still  _ there _ ?

There’s a soft knock on the door, and then Seherim moves inside, eye widening as he sees Ciaran crying.

“Ceádmil,” he greets uncertainly, closing the door. “I am glad to see you awake, though…”

Ciaran swipes ineffectively at his eyes, sniffling and trying to calm himself down. Cedric says nothing, just holding him. Or pretending to.

“C-Ceádmil,” Ciaran says, voice wet and trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m— I’m a mess.”

“No, no, you have every right to be. How are you feeling? Physically, I mean?” Seherim asks. “I’ve some food and water for you – mostly easily digestible though. And if you don’t mind, we should have a look at your side.”

Ciaran nods, drawing his right hand over his face before then staring at the left one for a moment, at the way he can flex two fingers, but not five. “Aching. Everything aches,” he admits hoarsely. “But… better. I think. Thank you.”

Seherim nods, offering a smile as he sets down a small bag, picks up a waterskin from it to hold out. Ciaran accepts it, sniffling again, and sips on it. Carefully. For the better, considering the state of his stomach, how thin he is. Too much water, too harsh food, it’ll only come up again. But the wound in his side needs looking at, and so Cedric pulls back, feeling as if he is in the way despite his intangibility.

Ciaran makes an alarmed noise. “Cedric, don’t go!” he protests. “Please.”

Cedric pauses, places his hand on Ciaran’s shoulder, ignoring Seherim’s searching look. “I won’t go anywhere, Ciaran. I promise,” he says. “I told you. As long as you need me.”

Ciaran swallows, nods in understanding. Seherim hesitates, before then moving over to unwind the bandages around Ciaran’s abdomen once Ciaran straightens up and makes it possible.

“He’s… still here, then?” Seherim wonders.

Ciaran nods, winces when the bandage sticks slightly to his wound. “I can’t see him anymore,” he says miserably. “Just hear him. Feel it when he touches me, a bit. Like a cold brush of wind. I just… I just can’t believe…”

Cedric caresses his cheek sadly, and Seherim’s eye saddens, even as he looks over the wound that seems to be a bit better already. Removing the infected tissue helped tremendously.

“You knew Cedric from… before, then? When he was Scoia’tael? Did you know him well?” Seherim questions carefully.

Ciaran bites his lip, more tears welling in his eyes, though they don’t yet fall. “I… he always picked the sweetest apples for me,” he says brokenly. And mayhap it seems a strange sentence to explain their relation, but Cedric finds it says enough. Those times, relaxing, climbing trees to pick wild apples, napping in the sun…

It might never have been stated, but there was love between them. Love, in so many ways. A different love than Cedric shared with Iorveth, but no less for it. And maybe something more could have come of it, eventually. Maybe two could have become three. That… that would have been wonderful. Beautiful.

But Cedric left, and now he is dead.

He will not let Ciaran die, if he can help it.

“I see,” Seherim says softly, his expression understanding. He gently wraps Ciaran’s wound in new, clean bandages.

Ciaran rubs at his face again, drawn, and tired, but then looks to Seherim with a determined glint in his eyes. “What happened?” he asks. “You said the Scoia’tael left. Why? How? When? How much time has passed?”

Seherim blinks, surprised at the change of topic, but Cedric isn’t surprised. Tired of crying, of pain, it’s always easier with something else to focus on.

“Ah…it has been two days since we met, and I brought you here,” Seherim says. “And that was already… about a day, day and a half after they left? Stole off with the prisoner barge, with Gwynbleidd’s help. I don’t know why, I’m afraid. I try to stay out of conflict, out of the way of dh’oine and Scoia’tael both. It happened after Cedric… well, but he sometimes knew things ahead of their time, so perhaps he knows more?”

“I don’t,” Cedric negates, before pausing. “Or… there was… a dragon? A cursed battlefield…”

Ciaran frowns. “A cursed battlefield? But a dragon— Vergen. They went to Vergen. If I’d not been thrown in the river, I could’ve— they could’ve—”

“You would likely be  _ dead _ , Ciaran,” Cedric points out. “Iorveth would not have reached you in time, not have the time or supplies to treat you if he did. But you know where they  _ are _ , which means that you can  _ find  _ them. Once you are healthier.”

Ciaran makes a wounded noise, covering his face with a hand. “Sheyss.”

“Does Cedric not know?” Seherim asks carefully. “Or were there other poor news?”

“No, I’m just— I miss them. I miss Iorveth. And I can’t even fight. Can’t do anything other than  _ languish,”  _ Ciaran says bitterly. “And my emotions are all over the place, I can’t think.”

“Hey now,” Seherim says, fetching another water skin, this one filled with broth, and pouring it into a bowl. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. And if anything I’ve heard of Iorveth is true, he’d want you to take care of yourself, to heal. And then you can find and join him again when you’re ready.”

Ciaran nods slightly, and takes the bowl of broth when it is offered, the spoon Seherim finds. He’ll be alright. It’s going to take time, Cedric knows. But he will. With Seherim’s help, with Anezka’s help, he’ll be alright.

Cedric will simply have to offer his support, and hope it’s better than nothing.

~

Ciaran falls asleep not long after Seherim leaves, and that’s for the better, Cedric thinks. Rest is what Ciaran needs the most now. And so that is how the next days pass. Ciaran sleeps, wakes intermittently, eats, drinks, and talks with Cedric before sleeping more. Some days, all he does is cry.

Cedric is barely aware of time passing. He isn’t bored, isn’t bothered by the long stretches of silence, because he barely notices them. He can sit, close his eyes, and open them to find Ciaran waking hours later. He can stare at the forest outside, blink, and find that nearly a day has passed.

It’s a relief, in a way. He can’t sleep, can’t eat, is simply awake, simply aware. If not for his new ability to just  _ not  _ focus, he would go mad.

In any case, Ciaran sleeps, and Cedric watches. For one week, for two. At that point, Ciaran finally starts being able to stay awake for longer stretches of time, can move about, can eat more solid foods. He’s also becoming absolutely fed up with the same four walls, to the point where his irritation even makes him snap at Cedric. Which, unsurprisingly, makes him cry the moment after.

But as he heals, he can also go outside, and that helps. Short trips, with many breaks, but it is a relief, a change to the four walls.

“I hate how long this takes,” Ciaran speaks up, sitting just outside the hut. “I’m so tired and weak, and I know it’ll pass, I know I’ll get stronger again, but…”

“But it is tiring,” Cedric says knowingly. “Waiting for wounds to heal is always the most tiring once you start feeling better, because you know you must wait more still, that activity might yet make it worse.”

Ciaran grimaces, nodding in agreement. Then he looks up sharply, ears perked. A moment later, his shoulders stiffen, and Cedric looks over, mildly surprised to find Anezka slipping through the trees. She looks… concerned. Very much so. What has happened to make her decide to come by?

She slows as she nears, holding up her open and empty hands, before stopping quite some ways away.

“Greetings,” she says breathlessly. Has she been running?

“…Ceádmil,” Ciaran says reluctantly.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” Anezka apologises. “Seherim will be by soon, I think. But I needed- a place I will not be looked for. Just for a bit. If you do not mind it too much, that I am human.”

Ciaran furrows his brows, then slowly shakes his head. “You… did help me. It would be poor of me to shun you, after that. Though, for what reason do you need to hide?”

“Men,” Anezka says flatly.

Cedric frowns. Anezka has been bothered before, but not to the point where she’s fled to the forest, that he can remember. That’s worrying.

“Could you ask if they’ve gotten worse?” he asks. Ciaran glances in his direction, nods slowly, contemplatively.

“Cedric wonders if they’ve gotten worse,” he says. “Are your menfolk often trouble to you?”

Anezka wrinkles her nose, moves closer with a careful eye to Ciaran, trying not to make him uncomfortable by her proximity. Ciaran, in turn, eyes her warily, but tries to relax his shoulders, to not seem quite so uneasy as he is. So much wariness, so much caution. Would that it wasn’t necessary.

“They have gotten worse, yes. Everything has gotten worse in Flotsam and Lobinden, recently. And it’s only now and then, normally, and usually I can turn them away. Or Cedric would chase them away from me, sometimes. Now…” Anezka shakes her head. “Greetings to you as well, Cedric. Seherim mentioned you remain.”

Cedric huffs softly with amusement. That he remains. What a gentle way to put it. But that things are getting bad in the village, that is concerning. Not really anything for Cedric to concern himself with, anymore, but… he is still concerned.

“You… knew Cedric then?” Ciaran asks, and Cedric supposes he isn’t surprised. Anezka just blinks slowly, and gives a small shrug.

“As most people around Lobinden did. Cedric was… kind. Always willing to help, in what ways he could. We appreciated him,” she offers.

Cedric blinks away sudden tears. He knows that. But hearing it said out loud, and hearing it said out loud in a past tense, it… he swallows. He isn’t sure what it makes him feel. Too much of whatever emotion it is supposed to be.

“That’s good,” Ciaran says, expression soft.

Anezka nods. Gives him a scrutinising look that makes him shift uneasily. “How is your health?” she questions, changing the topic. “You look better, if still too thin.”

Ciaran grimaces, not quite daring to avert his eyes, but not quite looking at her either. “Better,” he affirms. “…Thank you for helping me. I’m not sure why you did, but I might well be dead if not for your aid.”

“Seherim asked,” Anezka says plainly.

Ciaran blinks at her. “Just like that? You… are aware I’m Scoia’tael?”

“You needed help. I had the ability to do that. Are you going to kill me? Otherwise, I don’t see why it’s relevant that you’re Scoia’tael at all,” Anezka replies without fear. Ciaran stares at her, and Cedric makes a soft, amused noise.

“Anezka is very blunt,” he tells Ciaran. “But she means no harm to anyone.”

“I… see,” Ciaran says. It seems a response to both Anezka and Cedric. He smiles then, hesitantly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised. Cedric always did try to tell me not all dh’oine were the same.”

He did, Cedric muses. And Ciaran did listen. More, at least, than most of the younger Scoia’tael. But it’s difficult to keep up thinking so when only ever coming across those who seek to harm, those who kill one’s friends, only to then be killed, and have another kill for them. A spiral of death and hatred.

Cedric is glad Ciaran is still able to consider it though. Despite the awful treatment he has faced, he is still able to see individuals, see that not every dh’oine seeks him harm.

“I doubt every elf is the same, either,” Anezka says. “You’re not like Seherim, and Seherim isn’t like Cedric, and so on. People can be people without having to be like everyone else. That should be how it works.”

Ciaran’s lip twitches up further. “It should be,” he agrees.

Anezka smiles too, and Ciaran relaxes. Cedric gently runs a hand over his hair, relieved that it can be like this. Ciaran will be alright.


	3. Viklar meg inn i eit villvove spinn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onwards then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title means: Get myself entangled in a wildly spun mess

After a month, Ciaran is so  _ bored  _ with existence in a hut that he decides enough is enough, and that he should be finding Iorveth instead. Cedric isn’t surprised. There’s only so much to do, speaking with Seherim and Anezka who come by twice a day at most, and otherwise running out of topics to debate with Cedric. Of course, Cedric doesn’t experience it the same, now. He just is. He drifts, mostly, or mindlessly caresses Ciaran’s cheeks, arms or hair, if he isn’t being actively engaged with.

It’s odd, how unbothered he is by it. Though he thinks it discomfits Ciaran, for all that the other hasn’t mentioned anything. It’s in the faint furrow of brows when Cedric mentions not being able to tell the time, the chewing of a lip when Cedric responds slowly, still halfway floating in a strange state of dissociation.

Ciaran wants to leave, in any case. And Seherim frets, but Anezka merely shrugs, pointing out the fact that Ciaran isn’t fully healed, but otherwise sees no problem with it. And so, over a few days, the duo procures a few things necessary for travel; food, warm clothes, some bandages. Seherim offers a bow, but Ciaran still can’t feel his left hand properly, and so regretfully declines the offer, instead going for a simple sword.

Cedric hopes they won’t meet anyone that necessitates Ciaran needing to  _ use  _ the sword. Not the least because it would undoubtedly twist and stress the wound in his side.

Ciaran doesn’t ask if Cedric will follow. Expecting that he will, maybe. Or just not daring to ask in case of receiving a negative answer. But Cedric has no interest in Flotsam, anymore, no interest in Lobinden. He feels faintly concerned about leaving the forest, his lovely forest, but then… it’s not as if the forest needs him. And Ciaran… Ciaran doesn’t need him either. Not really. But until he is truly  _ safe _ , Cedric will stay with him. Because he can. Because… because somehow that feels to be the only thing that really matters, anymore.

Dressed, packed and ready, Ciaran embraces first Seherim, and then also Anezka, to which the latter blinks in surprise, a small smile blooming on her lips. It makes Seherim and Cedric smile too.

Then, they’re off.

Ciaran is visibly eased by the simple act of moving through the forest with a goal in mind, for all that he still needs to take it easy. Cedric keeps pace, but then, that’s not so difficult for him, what with not having a body. He still enjoys it. He can’t feel the moss under his feet, can’t smell the earth and trees, but he briefly feels the memory of it, and that is enough to feel content.

“Where do you think we’ll find Iorveth?” Ciaran asks, pausing to close his eyes, his good hand resting on a tree. Breathing in deeply, looking relieved. Relieved and sad, suddenly. Why is he sad?

“I think Vergen is a good starting point, if nothing else,” Cedric offers. “Either he is there, or someone or other would know when he was, and who might know where he has gone. He is, after all, quite striking.”

Ciaran nods slightly, opening his eyes, gaze drifting aimlessly in Cedric’s direction. “Iorveth is… he’s so important, Cedric,” he murmurs.

“I know,” Cedric replies. “But he is a person, too. Not just a symbol.”

Ciaran frowns. “I’ve never said he was!”

Cedric smiles sadly, reaching out to caress Ciaran’s cheek with his knuckles. “You haven’t. But I remember the way you looked at him. I remember how uneasy it made him. You know better now, I think. You’ve learnt to separate the elf from the legend. Or at least I hope that is the case. You’re sad, Ciaran. Why?”

Ciaran gnaws on his lower lip for a moment, even as he tilts his head into Cedric’s near-intangible touch. “…I don’t know if there’s a point, anymore. To finding Iorveth. I’m not… with my hand being as it is, I can’t be an archer. And the idea of getting too close to dh’oine, as I would need with a sword, it gives me chills, makes my breath quicken. Anezka… she’s alright. But she’s one of many.”

“Is that the only reason you want to find Iorveth? To fight at his side?” Cedric questions.

“No, I…” Ciaran drifts off, brushing his hair out of his face in a somewhat agitated manner. It falls back down. “I want to be with him. That’s all. As a friend, as a lieutenant, as… whatever he’ll have me as. He made it clear that there couldn’t be… more.”

Cedric sighs softly, moving closer to briefly give Ciaran something of an embrace. A cold breeze of a touch, nothing more, but a sign of his presence, at least. A sign of the affection he wishes to give.

“Oh, Ciaran,” he whispers. “There is a time and a place, and there must be balance. Iorveth could not accept you, because you could not see him. Not truly. And I suppose his rejection must’ve been after I left, too. You must remember, Iorveth feels deeply. And I hurt him. I hurt him terribly. Enough that he might’ve still been hurting, then.”

Ciaran sniffles, blinking suspiciously shiny eyes. “I just wanted…”

“I know, darling. I know,” Cedric soothes him. “It is a different time now. And maybe, just maybe, perceptions have changed. Iorveth cares for you very much. Regardless of what happens, I know he will be nothing short of joyous to see you alive.”

“But you’re not,” Ciaran blurts out. “You’re—what am I going to tell Iorveth? I’m alive, but you’re  _ not _ . I wish you hadn’t left. I wish you hadn’t chosen to help the sorceress. I wish you were  _ alive _ .”

Tears spill over Ciaran’s cheeks, and Cedric shushes him, brushing a hand over his hair.

“It is as it is,” he says, firm, but not unkind. “Iorveth knows I am dead, Ciaran. I doubt Gwynbleidd would hide the fact from him. Now, you have places to be, and an important elf to find, so let’s get to it. We won’t get anywhere, anguishing about what is now in the past. Look to the future. There’s so much of it left for you.”

Ciaran nods, even as tears continue to run over his face. He swipes his hand over his eyes, looks ahead with determination.

“You’re right,” he says. “Thank you, Cedric.”

Cedric smiles warmly. “You’re welcome, my darling. Let’s move while there’s still daylight.”

~

They travel on, bit by bit, day by day. Were he at full health, Cedric knows it wouldn’t take Ciaran all too long to reach Vergen, but as it is, he simply isn’t in shape for a gruelling pace, and so must take it easier than he likes. At least the forest is calm, empty of anything but animals. The dh’oine know it to be dangerous to traverse the forests in the area, and the Scoia’tael are no longer here. It is just forest.

Eventually, however, they reach Vergen. There are hints around that there has been battle, things dropped and not yet picked up, traces of blood and death. Cedric shivers, feeling deeply uncomfortable without being able to name why.

Ciaran, setting his jaw firmly, heads for the gate to the dwarven town. His hands are trembling minutely, his ears quivering, but Cedric can understand that. The uncertainty of whether Iorveth is here or not, of what other people might be met, Ciaran is anxious for good reason.

By the gate, there are two dwarves, squinting sceptically as Ciaran approaches.

“What do you want, elf?” one of the two demands, straight to the point.

“Is… Is Iorveth here?” Ciaran asks in return. “I need to see him. And if he isn’t here, I need to know where he might otherwise be.”

The dwarf grumbles. “Sure, he’s here. But you cause any trouble, and it’s right out with you, you hear?” he snaps.

Ciaran nods. “I understand,” he replies. It’s a wonder how steady his voice is, with how unsteady the rest of him is. But the dwarves grudgingly gesture for him to pass through the gate, and so he does, trying not to look as overwhelmed as he is. Cedric brushes a hand over his shoulder.

“Find the marketplace,” he suggests. “People always gather in such places, and where people gather, there are chances to ask if anyone knows where to find Iorveth.”

Ciaran nods, not responding verbally. For the best. There are people around, and appearing to be talking to oneself does tend to get some looks. Cedric certainly knows that himself, considering he had a tendency of doing exactly that.

Vergen is a winding kind of town. Cedric doesn’t mind it, but he thinks he would, if he were still alive. It’s too closed, too much stone. Ciaran doesn’t seem to even notice it, much, too focused on finding the marketplace, on finding Iorveth, now that he knows that the other elf is in fact here.

There are dh’oine in the town as well, Cedric notes. Dh’oine, dwarves, and the occasional elf. There is caution and sceptical glances between them, but no outright animosity, which is interesting. It makes Cedric faintly hopeful. Ciaran, of course, steers away from the dh’oine, subtly hides his damaged hand, straightens, and squares his shoulders. It makes him appear purposeful and serious, which is enough to make dh’oine avoid him too.

Finally, they find the marketplace. Not extremely busy, but active. Ciaran gets a slightly overwhelmed draw over his expression, and Cedric touches him briefly, to assure him that he’s still there. Then he perks up, seeing a familiar face haggling about what seems to be medicine. It’s Vilanya, the healer of the commando.

“Over there,” he murmurs. “See Vilanya? She likely knows where Iorveth is.”

Ciaran takes a quick breath, and makes straight for the brisk elf who wins the round of haggling and puts the medicine in her satchel. Upon turning, she sees Ciaran, and her eyes widen in surprise, then relief.

“Ciaran!” she exclaims, moving over to embrace him. “You’re  _ alive _ .”

Ciaran winces, Vilanya’s hugs tending towards being very tight, but folds his own arms around her, lower lip trembling.

“I am,” he whispers. “I almost… but I need to see Iorveth. Do you know where he is?”

Vilanya nods, releasing him, and then frowning as she looks him over. He’s still thin, drawn. Visibly tired if one is looking for it. Pursing her lips, she nods again, more thoughtful.

“You need some warm food in you. But yes, I know where Iorveth is. Come, I’ll show you. He’ll be so glad you’re alive, so glad you’re  _ here _ . He anguished so when Gwynbleidd told us you were on the barge, even more so when we took it and you weren’t there anymore. We thought it could only mean one thing.”

Ciaran grimaces, falling into step with Vilanya as she waves him along. “It… I would’ve drowned, I think. I was so poorly; I think maybe they thought to let the river finish the job. But I made it close to land, and…” he drifts off, uncertain.

“It’s up to you whether you want to mention me or not,” Cedric says softly. “For what it’s worth, Vilanya would believe you.”

Ciaran swallows. Chews on his lip for a moment before he nods. “Cedric helped me,” he mumbles. “He told me not to give up. So then I… so then I couldn’t give up. Even if he was… even if he was gone, in truth.”

Vilanya gasps quietly. “Oh, Ciaran,” she says. “What you’ve been through… I’m so very glad Cedric was there for you, even if only in spirit. It’s just like him, isn’t it?”

Ciaran nods, swiping his hand over his eyes, over the tears almost escaping. He doesn’t say anything more, and Cedric is fine with that. Not everyone needs to know he’s still present, still existing in this strange form. Not the least because he thinks it is more liable to hurt than soothe, to know he is present, but unable to communicate with anyone besides Ciaran. And if not now, then when he eventually passes on. Because surely he must? This cannot be his existence forever more?

“Here,” Vilanya says, stopping by a small house. “I believe he’ll be inside. I’ve some things to take care of, and I’m sure this reunion is better had alone, but I will see you later, Ciaran.”

Ciaran licks his lips, nodding uncertainly, and watches Vilanya go, disappearing around the corner. Then, his hands trembling even more, he reaches out and knocks on the door. One, two, three knocks. The tremble travels from his hands up his arms, to his shoulders, until the entire elf is trembling.

And then the door is opened.

Iorveth stands there, headscarf off, armour off, and Cedric feels a pang of wistfulness. Still guarded, but not quite as much. Iorveth must feel something close to safe, here, and that is incredibly relieving.

“C-Ciaran…?” Iorveth breathes, eye wide and vulnerable, face painted with disbelief and fragile hope.

Ciaran instantly starts crying. His breath hitches, a sob escapes him, and when he reaches for Iorveth, Iorveth reaches back, pulls him into an embrace, pulls him inside the house. Tears escape over his cheek, and he can’t seem to decide whether to roam his hands over Ciaran or just holding him tight.

Cedric feels like an intruder, and it feels quietly devastating. 

The door is closed, quick and harsh, and Ciaran and Iorveth end up on their knees on the floor, holding onto each other with trembling hands.

“You’re alive,” Iorveth says, and it sounds as if he isn’t certain he isn’t simply dreaming. “I thought—gods, Ciaran, I thought you were dead. If I had known—”

Ciaran whimpers, tucks himself closer to Iorveth still. “I’m so sorry,” he says miserably. “I failed you.”

“What—no!” Iorveth protests. “How could you possibly think that? What happened wasn’t your fault. It was  _ not _ . I am the one who should be sorry. If I had been quicker, if I had realised in time—”

Ciaran shakes his head, but says nothing. Iorveth swallows thickly and strokes his back with a firm yet gentle hand, taking the other to Ciaran’s cheek, thumb caressing the cheekbone.

And Ciaran thinks Iorveth feels nothing for him? Cedric smiles with more wistfulness. He knew it back then, and he knows it now. Iorveth feels greatly for Ciaran. And it’s wonderful. Maybe now there might be something of it, eventually. Or even soon.

He misses Iorveth’s touch. He misses it, and realises he barely remembers it.

“What happened? How did you survive? Can you tell me?” Iorveth asks of Ciaran, his voice tender. He won’t push if Ciaran asks him to refrain. But Cedric knows Ciaran will tell him, regardless. The question is how much he’ll tell of Cedric’s presence. To Vilanya it’s one thing, but to Iorveth… Cedric fears he’ll end up hurting Iorveth again, despite being dead. Because of it. Both.

“They tossed me in the river,” Ciaran says, voice hoarse and wet. “I was so weak, then, I should’ve drowned. But I got close to land, and… oh, Iorveth, Cedric was there. He told me I had to try, to get to land. If he wasn’t there, if he didn’t tell me to keep fighting, I… I think I would have given up.”

Iorveth stiffens. “Cedric is— Cedric is gone, Ciaran.”

“Dead,” Ciaran says, his voice trembling. “But not gone. Not really.”

“What are you telling me?” Iorveth questions, and now his voice is shaky as well. “Ciaran,  _ what  _ are you telling me?”

Ciaran sniffles, and his gaze rises, seeking desperately, yet resigned. Cedric moves over and touches his head gently, before, after a moment’s hesitation, reaching out to trace Iorveth’s cheekbone as well.

“I’m here,” he says softly. “Still.”

Ciaran blinks rapidly, nodding, and Iorveth sits as if petrified, eye focused at his cheek, at Cedric’s invisible hand.

“Cedric has been with me since then,” Ciaran admits. “I—I can’t see him anymore. I could see him, first, but… Cedric thinks maybe it’s because I was so close to death, then. Now I only hear him when he speaks. And I can feel him. A touch like a cool breeze, faintly there and gone again. Cedric was the one to tell me to get up, who told me to get help, who helped me find Seherim. Cedric was the one to tell me I should stay alive.”

“Cedric…” Iorveth says, lips trembling. “You damned fool.”

Cedric smiles wanly. “I do have some skill for getting into trouble, don’t I?” he replies, knowing full well the other can’t hear him.

Ciaran shakes his head, unhappy. “He says he has a skill for getting into trouble. And that’s not—damn it, Cedric!”

Iorveth closes his eye, a bitter, mournful draw to his face. “Was it worth it, Cedric? Was the trouble really worth it, this time?”

“Yes,” Cedric answers without hesitation. “Because if I were alive, drunk, in my cabin in Lobinden, Ciaran would be dead. Whatever this existence of mine is, because of it, Ciaran is alive. And that is absolutely worth it.”

Ciaran blinks rapidly, and his voice is choked up as he repeats the words. Word for word, this time, and Iorveth’s breath hitches, tears once more flowing from his eye. Cedric feels sad, for causing them such pain. But it is the truth, and there’s nothing he can do about his own presence, because he doesn’t know how. Still doesn’t understand it, despite the time that has passed.

Iorveth pulls Ciaran close again, hands fisted in his jacket. “Squass’me,” he murmurs. “Thank you, Cedric.”

Cedric gently caresses Iorveth’s cheek, the line of his ear, in response. He isn’t offended. Nor does he believe either of the two are truly angry at him. Ciaran still struggles with the concept that he is dead, and Iorveth has had time to accept he is dead, only to be faced with the fact that he is still somehow present, only… inaccessible. Emotions are running high. He doesn’t begrudge them that, can’t. Not when he is normally so emotional himself.

Was. Was emotional. Now… now he still feels, but it’s so muted. Not particularly important.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” Iorveth whispers to Ciaran, as if it is a secret, as if he wishes to impart the words only on the younger elf. And Cedric just smiles unseen, because there’s nothing else he can do.

~

Ciaran utterly exhausts himself, having travelled in poor shape, and then the emotional shock of finding Iorveth again. Iorveth bundles him in blankets on his bed, eye burning as he sees the half-healed wound dealt by Letho, and then moves through his little house, making certain everything is as locked as can be. Assuring Ciaran’s safety.

Then, Iorveth stops, standing straight in his little living room. His gaze is searching, wondering, and so very hurt.

“Cedric?” he says.

Cedric, tilting his head, moves over to run his hand over Iorveth’s hair. It’s getting longer now. Looks healthier, not as flat and greasy as the headscarf has often made it. Iorveth purses his lips, works his jaw, seeming to be trying to find words. Or perhaps trying to make himself say them out loud.

“…I cannot hear you, I cannot see you, I can barely feel you,” Iorveth says. “And yet I stand here, and I want to ask you  _ why _ , knowing that I cannot get an answer.”

Cedric sighs, cupping Iorveth’s jaw in his hand. Even if he could answer and be heard, what should the answer be? What has happened is already in the past, it cannot be changed. It is a question that deserves an answer, because he  _ knows  _ Iorveth will mull it over in his mind, over and over and over, trying to figure out what went wrong, how it could have been done differently.

The answer to the question ‘why?’ is however as simple as that Cedric doesn’t know. There was no big event, no enemy to fight. Just his own mind turning against him, to the point where he felt a threat to himself and all those around him, and elected to remove himself from the situation entirely. Was it the right choice? He cannot know.

“I’m so angry with you,” Iorveth admits. “I’m  _ furious  _ with you. But in the end, that’s only because I am… I lost you. I lost you once, and then again, permanently. Only now you’re here. For how long? Watching, listening, waiting? How long until I lose you  _ for the third time _ , Cedric?”

“Oh, Iorveth,” Cedric breathes, closing his eyes. He’s tearing up, can’t help it. No one to see, no one to hear, but in the end, he cries for himself. Cries for himself and cries for Iorveth, because he has single-handedly caused more harm to Iorveth than most of those who would seek him harm. Because Cedric is a fool. A damned fool.

“Damn you,” Iorveth whispers. “And damn me, for loving you still.”

Cedric has nothing to say to that. Nothing that will be heard by anyone but himself.

~

Ciaran sleeps the entire night, and Iorveth makes himself busy with other things, proceeding to completely ignore Cedric’s intangible presence. Or, that’s not right, he’s likely as not extremely  _ aware _ , but he refuses to spend more time wallowing and asking questions Cedric couldn’t answer even if he wished to.

It leaves Cedric feeling… superfluous. Unnecessary. Ciaran is safe now, Iorveth is safe and has found himself a home, and they are together. So what purpose does Cedric have in remaining here now?

He doesn’t know how to leave. And it makes him uneasy, makes him feel trapped.

Once Ciaran wakes, he and Iorveth share a light breakfast in silence. It’s a comfortable silence, in one way. But it is also vulnerable. There is something unsaid, something uncertain in the air. There is tension. And Cedric thinks, knows, that part of that is his presence. The roles they have all had while alive, the relations, they are changing, because he is gone. But in remaining as he is, how can one move on as if he is not?

Ciaran, unsurprisingly, is the first one to speak up, hands gathered in his lap, thumbs almost twiddling together, but not quite. Just twitching, just stroking over one knuckle repeatedly.

“Can I… stay? I can’t—I can’t be an archer, anymore. My hand, it doesn’t—I can’t feel it properly. But I can still be useful some way or other. I can help with resources, or maybe I can help Vilanya, or—”

“Of course you can stay, Ciaran,” Iorveth cuts him off. “That was never in question. What you can do doesn’t—well, it matters, but we’re not fighting, now. We don’t have to. And you’ll always be welcome to stay. In Vergen. With the commando. With me. It was your commando first, at that.”

Ciaran chews on his lip. “Hardly. It wouldn’t have gone well without you. But I’m glad. That you don’t mind me staying.”

A multitude of emotions play across Iorveth’s face, among them a flash of regret. Cedric can imagine why, but he remains silent, listening, pondering.

“I… ‘don’t mind’ isn’t how I would put it,” Iorveth says slowly. “I  _ want  _ you to stay. If you wish it yourself.”

Ciaran smiles, but it’s more like a grimace. “I, well, yes, but I don’t want to be in the way. Now that we’re… among people again, I imagine you might… find other elves to spend your time with, than those you were sort of just forced into company with.”

“Absolutely not. Ciaran, I  _ chose  _ to stay,” Iorveth says intently. “I chose to stay because the people of our commando – they’re  _ ours _ . They’re ours, we’re theirs, we’re all connected, nothing is going to change about that, I promise you. And who should I rather spend time with than you, now that I know you are alive? Tell me that?”

Ciaran averts his gaze, looking quietly miserable, and Cedric moves over, caressing his cheek gently. He’s fairly certain he knows why Ciaran is acting so oddly, and he’s fairly certain that he is also part of the problem. His presence.

Ciaran tilts his head into the touch, lashes fluttering, and takes a deep breath.

“You made it clear, back then, back when I asked… you made it clear that there couldn’t be anything. But I can’t let go of it. And what sort of friend am I, to pine away and not accept the way things are?”

Iorveth inhales sharply, eye widening. “Ciaran…”

There is a struggle, in Iorveth’s eye. Ciaran can’t see it, because his gaze is still averted, but Cedric sees it clearly, and he knows. As he said during their travel, perceptions may have changed. And he thinks they have. But his presence here, now, isn’t helpful. The knowledge that he can hear and see, without either of them being able to tell where he is, what he thinks, it creates an uncomfortable tension.

Iorveth has always been careful in his affections. Careful, but fierce too, near incapable of ceasing to feel strongly once he does. Cedric is glad, relieved, that Iorveth’s burgeoning feelings for Ciaran, feelings he saw back then, feelings he can see now, have grown. He’s glad for Iorveth. For Ciaran. But this is a conversation they must have without him.

“I’ll be back later,” he says. Abruptly so, judging from Ciaran’s startled blink his way. “I’ve something to ponder of my own.”

“Where— Cedric, where are you going?” Ciaran asks. “It’s not because I—?”

“No,” Cedric answers softly. “But this is an important conversation for the two of you to have, and one I shouldn’t be present for, when I should already be far gone. I’ll return… eventually. I would say an hour or so, but then, telling time isn’t one of my strengths anymore.”

Ciaran swallows, and Iorveth, looking concerned and somewhat frustrated, clears his throat. “What’s he saying?”

“That… he shouldn’t be here for our conversation,” Ciaran says slowly, bewildered. “But…”

Iorveth works his jaw, eye troubled, before he then nods. “Alright. I… think I understand, Cedric. It doesn’t change… well.”

Cedric smiles sadly. He knows it doesn’t change how Iorveth feels for him, these new feelings. He would be a fool to think so, considering how many people he himself has loved, even as he has always returned to Iorveth.

He moves to the door, then, with a soft word of farewell, slips through, out into Vergen instead. He’ll return later.

He feels, he feels, but he feels nothing truly.

~

A routine falls into place. Quite easily so, in the end, and perhaps that is no surprise. Iorveth still makes himself busy, out and about meeting with the commando, with queen Saskia, and working on ensuring the safety and comfort of his people. Meanwhile, Ciaran reluctantly rests after word from both Iorveth and Vilanya, and cautiously explores Vergen.

There’s no room for Cedric, in this new routine, but remain he does. Ciaran still speaks with him, but less when Iorveth is present. Neither has said anything of what they spoke of the time he left them alone, but he needn’t really be told anything either. Asides the fact that he observes careful affectionate touches, the blossoming of something uncertain and new, he can simply… feel it. He can feel the positive energy between the two. And that’s good.

Ciaran remains, too, in Iorveth’s little house. Another bed is brought in, which Cedric thinks wryly is rather a silly thing to do, but if they want to pretend at the necessity of separate beds, he’s not going to say anything about it. The excuse is that Ciaran shouldn’t be jostled too much as he heals, that Iorveth feels like sleeping in a bed too but doesn’t want Ciaran to sleep in a bedroll, but Cedric thinks they might just be silly because they can be, and because they’re still not quite decided on this new thing blossoming between them.

Something is building though. Or maybe something is simply preparing for change. He doesn’t know. He just feels… ready. For whatever that something is.

Days pass, Ciaran integrates back into life with Iorveth, Iorveth integrates back into life with Ciaran, and they both integrate to life in Vergen. In safety, in a tenuous but undeniable peace. It’s wonderful. Relieving, to know that they are going to be fine. That they are going to be free of violence. At least for a little while.

A week after their arrival, Cedric feels a change ripple through him, and he wakes – if it can be called waking so much as coming aware – from his dissociated state to find Iorveth and Ciaran sharing a kiss. A sweet little thing, a press of lips, eyelashes fluttering, both barely breathing as if it might interrupt their moment. It’s lovely, and Cedric is so very happy to see it.

And then— a snap.

Cedric gasps, hand flying to his chest. A weight he has been unaware of is lifted, a rope loosening, and he feels dizzy, feels  _ warm  _ for the first time since he woke in this state, as if he can almost feel the world around him truly.

“Cedric—?”

He blinks, looking to the two elves that are so wonderfully alive, and finds them both staring at him,  _ seeing  _ him. Iorveth is the one who spoke, disbelieving, hopeful, fearful.

“I think… you don’t need me anymore, Ciaran,” Cedric says slowly. Because that’s it, isn’t it? Of course it is. He has remained, because Ciaran asked him to. Because he promised to remain for as long as he was needed. And now he isn’t, anymore. He can… let go. He can move on.

“No—No wait, Cedric, you can’t go yet, you can’t—” Ciaran protests, stumbles to his feet, to reach out. He cuts himself off, shocked, when his hand  _ touches _ , when it meets resistance.

Cedric starts crying, now. Tears spill free of the corners of his eyes, stream over his cheeks, and he reaches out with a trembling hand to touch Ciaran’s cheeks truly, to feel the softness, to feel the warmth. He’d almost forgotten.

Iorveth moves too, rises slowly, his eye wide, his lips trembling. “To see you one last time… how can something be so cursed and so blessed at the same time?” he asks.

Cedric smiles through his tears, cupping Iorveth’s cheek in a hand, caressing his cheekbone with a thumb. His limbs are tingling, weightless. But he can still feel skin, can still  _ feel  _ through his fingertips, and with a breathless laugh, he leans forward to kiss Iorveth gently, to feel the softness of his lips against his own. Iorveth makes a soft noise more akin to a whimper than anything, but he kisses back.

When Cedric pulls back, Iorveth is visibly trembling from head to toe, tears silently trailing down to his chin. Cedric knows it hurts, because he too hurts, he feels it so much now, but at the same time, he’s so relieved. He’s free now.

“Cedric…” Ciaran sobs, and Cedric strokes his cheek, then leans in to kiss him too. Ciaran kisses back immediately, clinging to him, and he smiles into the kiss, breaks it off gently to just press their foreheads together for a long moment before he finally pulls back. He’s ready to go.

“It smells like apples,” he notes, and he laughs softly, even as he weeps, the tears only continuing to roll over his skin. “I’m so relieved. I can rest. I can finally  _ rest _ .”

“You’re fading,” Iorveth says, and Cedric can tell he’s only moments away from breaking into pieces, hands clenching at his sides as if to restrain himself from grabbing a hold of Cedric and never letting go. He’s sorry about that. He knows how hard this must be. But in the end, he has already passed, and it is time to move on. For all of them.

The tingling of his limbs is throughout him now, and he can see his edges becoming indistinct, can tell his time here is over.

“Va faill, my loved ones,” he breathes. “I look forward to seeing you again, where the apple trees bloom.”

He smiles, projecting all the love he holds for them both, and then the world disappears, slowly, leaving him in warmth and peace and love. He can rest.

**Author's Note:**

> I made myself cry with writing this. If it gave you emotions too, you're welcome! If you'd like to curse me out for it, come hang out in the queer witcher server: https://discord.gg/8M79ymR


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